Always Open
by TakenToTheCleaners
Summary: He's shivering slightly when he finally reaches the door, that familiar door which still feels so solid and secure-obstructing, too-beneath his strong, sun-kissed fist.


**A/N: Just a short one-shot with minor angst/fluff between two of our favorite blonds. :3 This is my first completed fanfiction and my first time writing either Arthur or Alfred. ;;w;;"**

**x.x.x.x**

He's shivering slightly when he finally reaches the door, that familiar door which still feels so solid and secure-obstructing, too-beneath his strong, sun-kissed fist. The extension of Arthur's roof is a welcome shelter from the pouring rain, and the porch light to his left chases away any fears of demons and killers which may have come to haunt him as he strode through the dim and wet streets of England. But of course, he'd never admit to insecurities, even with his glasses fogged up from humid, panting breath and his beloved bomber jacket simply soaked now and only serving to weigh his shoulders down.

And America knocks and knocks and knocks, so afraid that maybe there will be no answer, because after all he spent so much effort trying to get away from this home and the man inside it that to ask to be let in now is almost wrong. Or at least, something feels wrong to him.

All at once, the door is gone and England has taken its place, framed by the soft light of the hallway as he raises those massive eyebrows at his former colony in suprise, taking in the slightly panicked expression and soggy state of being. Arthur's suit jacket and tie have disappeared, and he is standing in a light green dress shirt and a pair of soft grey sleep pants. America can hardly register this right away and has just risen his fist to knock once more. He catches himself just before he accidently smashes it into the Brit's shoulder, swallowing a grimace when England flinches back with a flash of distrust through meadow-green eyes.

The moment is smoothed over soon enough; England shakes his head slightly with a concerned expression that could bear a hint of a fond smile. "America? You tosser, you missed your flight home again, didn't you?"

It's the miserable, embarrassing truth, and Alfred is just a little bit disturbed that Arthur still predicts him so well, even now. "Y-yeah... What can I say, I lost track of time! Ha-hah! D'you think I could come in, Iggy?"

"You could come in, and you may come in." England allows with his usual air of correction, opening the door wider. "Couldn't find a hotel this late, hm?"

"Actually, this was the first place I thought to go to..."

"Wh-what?" Arthur's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his mussed-up hair. "But-I'm nowhere near the airport!"

"I know..." Gratefully, he practically dives inside and peels off his poor jacket. "I just-I don't know why I... My feet started walking here and my head went along, y'know?" He admitted sheepishly, hoping the explanation made some scrap of sense.

This time, Arthur's expression really does melt into a smile. He shuts them inside, out of the rain and the dark, and Alfred feels warmer already as he allows himself to really look at England for the first time since the war. He looked tired. He looked thinner. But he looked happy, right now.

"My door will always open for you, Alfred." Arthur murmurs serenely, sincerely, without any trace of bitterness.

And that's exactly what America needed to hear, though he hadn't even known it.

My door will always open for you.

England wouldn't turn him away. But he wouldn't trap him, either.

So Alfred laughs and, on impulse, folds the smaller man into his damp arms, sweeping him into a hug that knocks the breath out of Arthur.

"Thank you, Arthur."

"You're welcome, Alfred... Always."

There's no use in fighting the urge to curl his hands on top of America's shoulders and lean into the embrace, which is so much more tender tonight than anything England has experienced in years. He holds the lad from the New World close, musing with a wry smile that of course he would let this hero in at anytime, if he will continue to save him from loneliness on dreary summer nights such as these.

They stand close, America dripping water onto the hardwood floor and England silently, secretly relishing in the contact, and it doesn't matter to him anymore that his former charge is bigger and bolder now, just as long as he loves him still. If that is true, then England can handle anything.

Eventually, they can no longer ignore the fact that they are now both in need of a change of clothes and a warm bath, not to mention that the tea England had been so looking forward to drinking before America's arrival was rapidly cooling in his sitting room. Mere details could wait.

For now, this was home enough for the both of them.

_End_


End file.
